by Meg Mundell
‘They don’t like that other lot much,’ he confided, jerking his thumb in the direction of the far compound. ‘Dirt people, they call them.’
Billie had caught glimpses of the far camp’s inhabitants: listless children rolling a ball back and forth, men lugging water barrels across the yard, a floppy figure being carted on a stretcher. They had the look of people in a news clip, ragged souls exiled from dusty deserts and far-flung war zones.
‘How long have they been here?’
Robbie shook his head. ‘No idea, hen. Afraid to ask.’
She knew what he meant. Bad thoughts could be contagious. In the dark hours nightmares rampaged through the dorms, unsettling all but the deepest sleepers, and most days you heard the sound of sobbing echo in the corridors. Several people, Owen included, now spent most days napping on their beds, medded up to the eyeballs. Two hunger strikers were confined to the medical clinic, drugged into submission and hooked up to IV drips, and there were rumours of force-feeding and self-harm. One of the bereaved children, a twelve-year-old girl, had stopped speaking, had to be coaxed to eat and drink. Seeing a child lose hope, shut down like that: it was disturbing. How long until others followed suit?
A group of people had begun gathering daily for a prayer service of sorts, a ritual of no particular denomination, led by the lapsed priest and one of the grieving wives. Passing by the room Billie had seen them sitting in a circle, heads bowed, united in some private rite to honour the dead. Had caught the odd word – heard them reciting the names of lost loved ones, offering tributes, snatches of remembered lives. People she’d known briefly; people she’d been unable to save. She’d ducked her head and hurried past.
Two nights ago at dinner, one of the women from this group, a fellow Scot, had approached Billie. Asked her to join the circle, sing for them, a hymn perhaps: ‘Dark Island’ or ‘Amazing Grace’? Billie had declined as gently as she could. Doubted she could face them as a group, let alone sing in their midst.
Part of her envied those who could hold on to faith; whatever kept you afloat.
With Owen sunk into a silent depression and Captain Lewis’ ineffectual presence now held in wide contempt, Kellahan was left to field the inmates’ concerns and advocate for their medical needs. The doctor was doing his best to keep Billie occupied, had brokered an arrangement with the camp’s medics: assigned her an informal triage role, checking on medication and helping with referrals to the onsite psych, a harried-looking woman who seemed short on sleep herself. It had helped to feel useful, but that impression was fading with alarming speed. Two weeks in, Billie could feel her own resolve slipping away. A dull hopelessness creeping in.
Day and night a screen flashed in a corner of the rec room, volume muted, captions only, and Billie found herself drifting on the periphery of those flickering images, watching for a signal that never came. The election Mitch had mentioned was now imminent: newsreaders served up opinion polls while local politicians flipped burgers, played cricket with schoolkids or thundered into microphones, hurling accusations at each other.
Further afield, bad news abounded: fatal floods in California, food riots in India, ominous rumblings between Beijing and Taipei. In Texas a bunker cult had declared itself a separate state, blown up all the surrounding roads. Back home the plague tolls rose in jagged increments. More than enough madness and pain in this world to keep the howlers occupied.
Parents had begged the guards to kill the screen, or switch it to a child-friendly channel, but the men just shrugged, said the thing was centrally controlled, they had no say in the matter.
Their own story seemed to be fading from view, reduced to the odd brief bulletin – shots of the damaged ship, men in lab coats saying reassuring things, condemnatory sound bites from the leader of the opposition, a five-second clip of an activist urging the government to have a heart. The problem of their presence being hustled offstage, the feeding frenzy shifting to other targets. How quickly the crowd can turn, she thought. Or turn away.
~
She was in the rec room, dispatching another dismal meal, when an image flashed onto the screen and stopped her dead, fork halfway to mouth.
A headshot: Mitch standing on a beach, handsome as ever, all white teeth and symmetrical features, grinning into the camera. Beneath the newsreader ran a brief caption: Journalist found dead.
Billie felt the blood drain from her face as the presenter read off her autocue: Body discovered on suburban building site … covering human rights, fraud and corruption cases … police appealing for information.
She picked up her plate and left the room.
~
The camp director stood before the crowd, khaki shirtsleeves rolled up, as if he was about to pitch in and help move some furniture. Three weeks here and this was their first sighting of the boss. A heavy-set man with a bronzed complexion and a broad gut, he had a genial air that seemed at odds with the grim setting.
This gathering was adults only, the children being supervised outside: a clue that unpleasant topics were on the agenda, emotions likely to run high. Billie scanned the crowd: anxious faces, but no open displays of anger. Since being towed here – dragged helpless behind that military ship, dumped in the middle of nowhere – the inmates had lost much of their bravado. Near the back sat Captain Lewis, his silver hair neatly combed, his expression unreadable. Dressed in civvies now, no gold buttons or brocade, all traces of authority gone. Reduced to a civilian with good posture.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ the camp director began, as if this was some dull party they’d all been kind enough to attend. ‘It’s important that we keep the lines of communication open.’ He smiled, took a little stroll from side to side. There was no barricade or dais, no line of soldiers between him and the crowd. But ranged around the walls were close to forty khaki-clad guards, batons on hips. The man knew he was not in any danger.
‘You’ve been through a distressing time,’ the director went on. ‘A terrible tragedy. My sympathy goes out to all of you.’ His voice was smooth and confident, the man clearly a practised speaker.
‘Wouldn’t trust this lot as far as I could throw them,’ Juliette muttered beside her. ‘They’ll do anyone’s dirty work.’
It wasn’t clear how long they’d be held here, said the director – unfortunately he wasn’t privy to that information. National security, ongoing investigation, their own protection etcetera. The wheels turned slowly.
But there might be something they could do – a way to speed this process up.
‘You will have heard the talk,’ he went on. ‘The rumours that a bioterrorist cell infiltrated your ship, caused the deaths of innocent people.’ The claims that this disaster was the work of anti-migrant groups, vigilantes and extremists. Toxic orgs like StayPut, whose mission was to stop the free movement of people across borders – to prevent hard-working people like them from striving to make better lives for themselves, for their families. The director’s expression darkened. ‘I’m the child of immigrants myself. Believe me, I have no tolerance for those attitudes.’ He paused, surveyed the crowd. The guy had a knack for sincerity, but Billie didn’t find herself warming to him. However well he spoke, the man was still a jailer.
A gang of children drifted past the window, hair whipped by the wind, Cleary amongst them; a guard followed, trailing smoke, fist cupped around his cigarette. Remnants of old plastic bags flapped in the fence-line, and beyond the cliffs a slate-grey sea merged into an ashen sky.
‘Rumours can be dangerous,’ the director continued, ‘and there may well be no truth in all this speculation. But if anyone here has information about events on that ship, I urge you to come forward – to speak to me privately, in confidence. You have my personal assurance that you will be protected.’
Mitch’s smiling face flashed into her mind. Whoever had killed the journalist must be aligned with Marshall, was hell-bent on protecting the
perpetrators of this horror by any means. There may well be others on the payroll, more dangerous men amongst the remaining crew members. Her association with the journo may well have drawn attention.
‘Please,’ said the director. ‘If you have intel that might help advance the investigation, might help pinpoint the party responsible for these atrocities – share it. Help bring this terrible affair to an end. If you can shed any light, do the right thing. My door is open.’
He smiled again and held his hands out in a gesture of welcome. Then his expression changed.
‘The truth,’ he added, ‘is that the cause of this disaster cannot remain a mystery. The authorities have made that clear. Unless information is forthcoming, you may be held here indefinitely.’
The room was strangely quiet. Billie felt the desperation of her fellow inmates, the sense of anger fast sinking into despair. This was no place for children. It was no place for human beings.
She mustn’t give in to the idea that they were helpless. Better to stay angry. She would find a way to speak to the camp director – make him listen.
~
Billie waited until the afternoon lull, the lethargy that settled over the camp in the slow hours after lunch – kids playing a desultory game of ping-pong on a scarred table; the adults staring at the TV screen, playing cards or napping.
There was no fuss. A quiet word with one of the guards, and she was escorted through a set of doors and down an empty corridor.
The camp director’s office was smaller than expected, the room dominated by a window that overlooked the pier, the distant cliffs, the waves battering the rocky headlands. A sparse room: filing cabinets, a framed picture of a racehorse, a row of neglected cacti on the sill.
As she entered he rose to shake her hand. ‘Ray Harker.’ His grip firm but not forceful.
‘Billie,’ she replied, as if her full name was any kind of secret. As if he didn’t have it at his fingertips, perhaps already knew it. The director dismissed the guard and waved her into a chair, waited for her to speak.
She laid it out simply, bare details only, as she’d planned: said the missing crewman, Evan Marshall, had been paid to contaminate the ship’s drinking water. When Davy Whelan caught him tampering with the tanks, Marshall had slit the man’s throat.
‘What happened to us wasn’t bioterrorism,’ she said. ‘This was commercial sabotage. Marshall was paid to do this. We need to get the police involved.’
The director held up his hands. ‘This is a lot to take in. Can I ask where this information has come from?’
She hesitated. ‘It came from someone who’s no longer with us.’
He looked surprised. ‘One of the deceased?’
She nodded. ‘We need the police. I’ll tell them everything I know. Can you make contact?’
‘Of course,’ said the director. ‘I’m in close contact with senior federal police. We’re helping facilitate the investigation, setting up remote interviews with camp residents.’
‘When?’ said Billie. ‘Can I speak to them today?’
‘Let’s slow down a bit,’ he said. ‘We can certainly arrange a link. But first I’d like to clarify what you’re telling me. You say this crewman, this Marshall, was paid to do what – to deliberately contaminate the drinking water on the vessel?’
‘Yes. The police need to look into his finances. Track the money trail. There are records of the payments.’ Three dirty sums, deposited discreetly. But not quite discreetly enough.
The director frowned. ‘Records? You’ve seen these records?’
‘Not me. One of the people who died. He found proof.’
‘Proof of what? Payments?’
‘Yes,’ said Billie. ‘From a rival shipper.’
‘Really?’ He sat back, clasped his hands across his belly. ‘Does anyone else in the camp know about these allegations?’
What did that matter? Was this guy slow on the uptake? ‘I’m not sure. But it’s not just allegations. You know another crewman was killed, just before we got towed out here? Scoot – Stewart Armstrong. I think he knew full well who was responsible. I think Marshall killed him too.’
The director shifted in his chair. ‘I’m sure the police will be keen to speak to you, but I’ll need to brief them. I’m trying to get my head around what you’re saying. You were one of the nurses, correct?’
Of course: he knew she wasn’t just a random passenger.
‘I’ve read the reports,’ he said. ‘My impression is that your presence was a godsend. Without you the death toll would have been much higher.’
So, he didn’t side with the howlers. Reassuring, but this wasn’t the time for compliments.
‘Are you hearing me?’ she said. ‘All those deaths – I’m saying it was deliberate.’
‘You’re aware that police are looking into alternative theories – you know about the encounter with the Spanish ship?’
Not this again. ‘Yes. And the floating-corpse theory. Neither one stacks up.’ She waited. ‘This wasn’t an accident. There’s evidence.’
‘Alright,’ he said, suddenly decisive. ‘I’ll put a brief together and send it through this afternoon. Let them know you’re serious, request a linkup. Just one more thing. This rogue company. Do you know its name?’
‘It’s a shipping firm,’ she said. ‘It’s called Orion. This can’t wait. Can I make a statement today?’
The camp director sat back. ‘Ah,’ he said with a slow smile. ‘Now, this is a little awkward.’ He opened a drawer, dug around. Then, watching her closely, he slid a card across the desk.
Billie skimmed his name, his job title. Then her eyes fell on the logo: a thick black O, sliced through with a lightning bolt. Below it, the full company name spelt out, five letters.
A sudden weight of dread. A falling sensation.
‘We’re a large corporation,’ he was saying, genial as ever. ‘International in scope. Fingers in many pies, diverse interests across multiple territories – security, transport, logistics. Oversight of mobile workforces. And certain other groups, of course.’ Scanning her face, he feigned surprise. ‘You didn’t know? Not to worry. I’m sure this sensitive information will be handled with great care.’
A sick lurch in her chest: the realisation that there was no way to reverse this.
‘Thanks for hearing me out,’ she said, keeping her voice steady. She made to rise, but the camp director waved her back into her seat.
‘No rush. I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’d rather wait and speak to the police. I’d like to leave now.’
He leant forward to press a button on his desk. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Not just yet.’
TOM
That ceaseless wind. Shrieking and moaning, a creature possessed by demons, hurling itself across the barren landscape, thrashing against the cinderblock walls and battering the windows. Rattling the glass in its frames, trying to get in. All night I listened to it howl around the building like a lunatic.
Madness manifest, insanity impersonating weather. A mindless force that drained your energy, made it difficult to put two thoughts together.
The children had stopped asking when we’d leave this place. They sensed when they were being lied to, or fed platitudes. Had soon learned which questions made the adults uneasy.
Our lessons had resumed – a bid to keep them occupied, distract them from the bleakness of our surroundings. Myself too, I’ll admit. We made do with an ink-stained whiteboard, loose sheets of paper, the art supplies and games brought from the ship, and an ancient and incomplete set of encyclopaedias one of the guards had unearthed from some musty storeroom. What keeps the sun alight? What causes chilblains? What is the ether?
Their drawings had taken a disturbing turn: fences, razor wire, birds in cages. Rain clouds and burning ships, dotted lines of tears st
reaming down unhappy faces.
I had no training for this.
‘Who can tell us the order of the colours in a rainbow?’ I asked brightly. ‘Does anyone know what’s inside a camel’s hump?’ Grinning at them like some kind of simpleton. ‘Who remembers the name of the first woman on Mars? What’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite? Who can guess what a seahorse eats?’
I knew Cleary was missing his friend. Apparently he’d woken one morning to find Billie’s bed empty, her belongings gone. There’d been no sign of her since. Doctor Kellahan made enquiries, asked the guards where she was, and eventually got an answer of sorts: it seemed she may have been shipped back to the mainland to assist with the police investigation. They couldn’t say for sure.
One morning, as I walked a circuit of the prison grounds, battling the wind, I found some of my students gathered at the fence. Across the asphalt, in the opposite compound, a group of ragged figures waved from a rooftop. A platoon of guards or soldiers stood below, their rifles trained upon the men on the roof.
The scene unsettled me, and I hustled the kids inside. As the door slammed shut I heard the crack of gunshots carry on the wind. I tried to go back out, see what was happening, but the guards blocked my way.
‘Who are they?’ I asked one of the men. ‘Those other people?’
‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘Get back inside.’
Flint Island: a barren rock at the arse-end of the globe. Dumped in that nowhere place like spoilt goods, we languished in a kind of half-life. Morale sank lower daily and our jailers confined themselves to the most rudimentary of responses: more soap could be obtained from the dispensary. Group outings to the beach were limited to children and must be signed off by the director. Outbound communications were not permitted. Variations to the menu were not possible. The windows in the dorm rooms did not open.
Leaking taps, broken locks, a layer of windborne grit coating everything. Mould in the bathrooms, black blotches creeping out from damp corners. Drifting spores, tiny toxins … the thought made me shudder.